


To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Darkfic, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV Second Person, Possibly Unrequited Love, Rare Male Slash Exchange 2018, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-28 03:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15039863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: Logan gets sent to rehab. William visits him there.





	To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SidleyParkHermit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidleyParkHermit/gifts).



* * *

_~ Then ~_

* * *

 

You hate being sent to rehab.

This is, what? Your third stint? Your fourth? Your fifth? More? You’ve lost count by this point. They all blend together into one interminable, stultifying haze that is never quite numbing enough to negate the head-splitting pain of forced withdrawal.

You hate the attractively bland, ordered setting. You hate the routine meds, the structured group activities, the one-on-one therapy sessions. You even hate the food (three square meals a day, top-of-the-line gourmet cuisine, only the best for James Delos’s prodigal son).

“Mr. Delos, may I tempt you with a glass of fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice?”

“No! Go away!” You make a shooing gesture. The aide with the juice tray complies immediately without further comment or question.

But above all else, you hate the _people_. The faces change, but the people are always the goddamn same. The false cheer of the staff, their earnest exhortations to “turn over a new leaf” and “be the change you dream about” and “become your best self today” make you want to hurl—

“Mr. Delos, you have a visitor.”

“No! Send him away! I’m not taking visitors!” You make another shooing gesture, but this time, the aide (who no longer holds the juice tray) doesn’t oblige you by going away.

“Alas, he is being most insistent, sir, and as he is one of our center’s most generous benefactors, we really cannot prevent—”

“Logan.”

“Fuck you, too,” you mutter.

It’s William. Of course it is.

 

* * *

_~ Now ~_

* * *

 

You’re shuddering. Close. So very close. Every muscle is starting to tense. You bury your face into the nape of Tobias’s neck. His sweat-damp curls tickle your sensitive lips and nostrils, but you don’t care. You inhale deeply, savoring his natural scent as your thrusts into his hot, willing body accelerate. Ah yes, there you go—! One more thrust, all the way to the hilt, balls deep, and you begin to climax.

The drugs and the booze had made you impotent. Your dick had been as useless an appendage as your appendix. Well, guess what? You got clean, and now you aren’t impotent anymore.

Instead, you feel like you might just be a fuckin’ _God_.

“Aaahhh, Logan—!” Tobias cries out, bucking, his slender body writhing helplessly beneath the weight of your body as he spills himself into the sheets.

Afterwards, you lay together, chest to chest, legs tangled together, and you cuddle. No wham, bam, thank you ma’am, nope, not by a long shot. You’ve changed, and you’ve learned the value of trust and intimacy and emotional vulnerability—Tobias taught you that. You talk about the future, and Tobias listens. His gorgeous blue eyes are clear and trusting.

“I will burn everything he has built down to the ground,” you say. “He would end humanity as we know it, but I won’t let him.”

 

* * *

_~ Then ~_

* * *

 

The garden is at its best in the summertime: lush grasses, vividly colored flowers, butterflies and birdsong. You gaze out through the expansive picture window, pretending the speckles of sunlight dancing along the ground—a gentle wind is rustling the leaves of the trees—have temporarily hypnotized you.

William pulls up a chair and sits down beside you. You say nothing and make no sign of acknowledgment; he returns the favor. You continue to ignore him. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can ignore him long enough that he’ll get bored, and maybe, if you’re _really_ lucky, he’ll leave without having attempted to speak to you at all.

“Emily made you a get well card.”

Oh, well. No such luck.

A card made of an oversized piece of construction paper folded in half is placed on your lap. You look down. It features a child’s crayon drawing on the front—two stick figures, one adult and one child, holding hands and smiling. Inside it reads, in slightly crooked block capital letters: _Dear Uncle Logan, Feel better soon! I miss you! Love, Emily_

“She does miss you terribly, you know,” William says. “As does Juliet. Juliet worries herself to pieces every day. We all do, actually.”

“Bullshit.” You bark out a laugh, short, loud, and mean.

“That last overdose nearly killed you, Logan! The drugs, the alcohol— Things can’t go on like this!”

 

* * *

_~ Now ~_

* * *

 

You’re back in the game, you know, and you’re not going to pass up your second chance. You’re overexcited; you’re becoming jittery. So you pace back and forth at the foot of the bed, plotting, releasing excess energy. “First things first: I need to get my sister and her little girl away from that … that … ugh!”

“I’m with you always, beloved, no matter what,” Tobias reassures you.

“I know,” you say, your heart full to the brim with love, “I-I—” You’re stuttering; you’re that full of love. You try again: “T-Tobias, I-I—”

A voice from the hallway just beyond the door: “Freeze all motor functions.”

It’s _William_. Of course it is.

You feel irrationally paralyzed by fear. You see that Tobias has become a mannequin in the bed. Clearly, he was never human. He is—!

William enters the bedroom and comes to stand directly in front of you. You are shocked. He’s grown … _old_. His face sags. It is a mass of wrinkles. How in the hell—and _when_ —did that happen—?!

“Neurological degeneration has begun to set in. The trial will have to be aborted. Goddammit. And here I thought we were close this time,” William says, mostly to himself.

You have questions, but you’re so consumed by rage that you can’t find the words to speak.

“Thank you, Tobias. You may leave.”

Tobias rises from the bed at William’s command and exits the bedroom without even a backward glance at you.

“Tobias has proven himself useful time and time again during these trials, but he was always just … extra. An extra precaution, as it were, back when you were refusing to see me. But he wasn’t _necessary_. What did I tell you, Logan?” William asks in a rhetorical tone, voice gone creaky and gruff with age. “As long as there’s someone alive to remember you—”

You would punch him in that smirking, shriveled prune of a mouth. You would _kill_ him. But then you realize you can’t move either. You’ve become a mannequin too. Shit. You’re—!

 

* * *

_~ Then ~_

* * *

 

“Much more and you really will kill yourself.”

“What do you care?”

“I’ve always cared!” William leaps to his feet, looking stricken, but you aren’t fooled by his act or his lost little puppy expression. No, not anymore.

With both hands grasping the sides of your face, William pulls you toward him and presses a hard, needy kiss to your lips. You take special care not to return his passion with any of your own. Old habits can be hard to break, it is true, but this time—finally!—you think you’ve just about managed it.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers. He rests his forehead against your shoulder. You allow it for three seconds before pushing him away. Hard.

“Oh, spare me the dramatics,” you snap as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, affecting an arch air of singular disgust. “You’re just upset that I haven’t been back to the park to contribute to your little data collection project. I like being one of a kind, thank you very much, and when I’m gone, I want to be _gone_.”

William shakes his head slowly and says, so soft you can hardly hear him, “You aren’t dead as long as there is someone alive to remember you. We live in memory; we can be recreated from memory.”

“Yeah? Well, whatever.” This twiddle-twaddle doesn’t interest you. “Good thing you’re not immortal … yet.”

You stop talking and return your attention to the view of the garden. Eventually, William seems to give up. He leaves. You’re relieved, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

“Mr. Delos, may I tempt you with a glass of fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice?”

Hmm. It seems the aide is back with the juice tray. You realize you’ve changed your mind; you decide that maybe you’ll try some after all.

As you select a glass at random from the tray, you actually look at the aide for the first time. You don’t normally pay much attention to the help, but for some reason, now, you do: You really _look_ at him. And you are quite surprised to note how boyishly handsome he is—firm, shapely muscles visible beneath those natural linen scrubs, liquid, baby-blue eyes, and a ridiculous mop of honey-blond curls …

 _Mmm, nice._ You decide that you wouldn’t mind trying some of _that_ either.

“So, tell me,” you say as you glance at the aide’s ID badge. _Tobias_. Cute name. “How long have you been working here, Tobias?”

 

* * *

_~ The End ~_

* * *


End file.
